The King of the Silver River stood at the edge of the Gardens that had been his domain since thedawn of the age of faerie and looked out over the world of mortal men. What he saw left him sad anddiscouraged. Everywhere the land sickened and died, rich black earth turning to dust, grassy plainswithering, forests becoming huge stands of deadwood, and lakes and rivers either stagnating ordrying away. Everywhere the creatures who lived upon the land sickenedand died as well, unable to sustain themselves as the nourishment theyrelied upon grew poisoned. Even the air had begun to turn foul.

And all the while, the King of the Silver River thought, the Shadowengrow stronger.

His fingers reached out to brush the crimson petals of the cyclamen thatgrew thick about his feet. Forsythia clustered just beyond, dogwood andcherry farther back, fuchsia and hibiscus, rhododendrons and dahlias,beds of iris, azaleas, daffodils, roses, and a hundred other varietiesof flowers and flowering plants that were always in bloom, a profusionof colors that stretched away into the distance until lost from sight.There were animals to be seen as well, both large and small, creatureswhose evolution could be traced back to that distant time when allthings lived in harmony and peace.

In the present world, the world of the Four Lands and the Races that hadevolved out of the chaos and destruction of the Great Wars, that timewas all but forgotten. The King of the Silver River was its soleremnant. He had been alive when the world was new and its firstcreatures were just being born. He had been young then, and there hadbeen many like him. Now he was old and he was the last of his kind.Everything that had been, save for the Gardens in which he lived, hadpassed away. The Gardens alone survived, changeless, sustained by themagic of faerie. The Word had given the Gardens to the King of theSilver River and told him to tend them, to keep them as a reminder ofwhat had once been and what might one day be again. The world withoutwould evolve as it must, but the Gardens would remain forever the same.

Even so, they were shrinking. It was not so much physical as spiritual.The boundaries of the Gardens were fixed and unalterable, for theGardens existed in a plane of being unaffected by changes in the worldof mortal men. The Gardens were a presence rather than a place. Yet thatpresence was diminished by the sickening of the world to which it wastied, for the work of the Gardens and their tender was to keep thatworld strong. As the Four Lands grew poisoned, the work became harder,the effects of that work grew shorter, and the boundaries of humanbelief and trust in its existence--always somewhat marginalaO"began tofail altogether.

The King of the Silver River grieved that this should be. He did notgrieve for himself; he was beyond that. He grieved for the people of theFour Lands, the mortal men and women for whom the magic of faerie was indanger of being lost forever. The Gardens had been their haven in theland of the Silver River for centuries, and he had been the spiritfriend who protected its people. He had watched over them, had giventhem a sense of peace and well-being that transcended physicalboundaries, and gave promise that benevolence and goodwill were stillaccessible in some corners of the world to all. Now that was ended. Nowhe could protect no one. The evil of the Shadowen, the poison they hadinflicted upon the Four Lands, had eroded his own strength until he wasvirtually sealed within his Gardens, powerless to go to the aid of thosehe had worked so long to protect.

He stared out into the ruin of the world for a time as his despairworked its relentless will on him. Memories played hide-and-seek in hismind. The Druids had protected the Four Lands once. But the Druids weregone. A handful of descendents of the Elven house of Shannara had beenchampions of the Races for generations, wielding the remnants of themagic of faerie. But they were all dead.

He forced his despair away, replacing it with hope. The Druids couldcome again. And there were new generations of the old house of Shannara.The King of the Silver River knew most of what was happening in the FourLands even if he could not go out into them. Allanon's shade hadsummoned a scattering of Shannara children to recover the lost magic,and perhaps they yet would if they could survive long enough to find ameans to do so. But all of them had been placed in extreme peril. Allwere in danger of dying, threatened in the east, south, and west by theShadowen and in the north by Uhl Belk, the Stone King.

The old eyes closed momentarily. He knew what was needed to save theShannara childrenaO"an act of magic, one so powerful and intricate thatnothing could prevent it from succeeding, one that would transcend thebarriers that their enemies had created, that would break past thescreen of deceit and lies that hid everything from the four on whom somuch depended.

Yes, four, not three. Even Allanon did not understand the whole of whatwas meant to be.

He turned and made his way back toward the center of his refuge. He letthe songs of the birds, the fragrances of the flowers, and the warmth ofthe air soothe him as he walked and he drew in through his senses thecolor and taste and feel of all that lay about him. There was virtuallynothing that he could not do within his Gardens. Yet his magic wasneeded without. He knew what was required. In preparation he took theform of the old man that showed himself occasionally to the worldbeyond. His gait became an unsteady shamble, his breathing wheezed, hiseyes dimmed, and his body ached with the feelings of life fading. Thebirdsong stopped, and the small animals that had crowded close edgedquickly away. He forced himself to separate from everything he hadevolved into, receding into what he might have been, needing momentarilyto feel human mortality in order to know better how to give that part ofhimself that was needed.

When he reached the heart of his domain, he stopped. There was a pond ofclearest water fed by a small stream. A unicorn drank from it. The earththat cradled the pond was dark and rich. Tiny, delicate flowers that hadno name grew at the water's edge; they were the color of new snow.A small, intricately formed tree lifted out of a scattering of violetgrasses at the pond's far end, its delicate green leaves laced withred. From a pair of massive rocks, streaks of colored ore shimmeredbrightly in the sunshine.

The King of the Silver River stood without moving in the presence of thelife that surrounded him and willed himself to become one with it. Whenhe had done so, when everything had threaded itself through the humanform he had taken as if joined by bits and pieces of invisible lacing,he reached out to gather it all in. His hands, wrinkled human skin andbrittle bones, lifted and summoned his magic, and the feelings of ageand time that were the reminders of mortal existence disappeared.

The little tree came to him first, uprooted, transported, and set downbefore him, the framework of bones on which he would build. Slowly itbent to take the shape he desired, leaves folding close against thebranches, wrapping and sealing away. The earth came next, handfulslifted by invisible scoops to place against the tree, padding anddefining. Then came the ores for muscle, the waters for fluids, and thepetals of the tiny flowers for skin. He gathered silk from theunicorn's mane for hair and black pearls for eyes. The magictwisted and wove, and slowly his creation took form.

When he was finished, the girl who stood before him was perfect in everyway but one. She was not yet alive.

He cast about momentarily, then selected the dove. He took it out of theair and placed it still living inside the girlaO(TM)s breast where itbecame her heart. Quickly he moved forward to embrace her and breathedhis own life into her. Then he stepped back to wait.

The girl's breast rose and fell, and her limbs twitched. Her eyesfluttered open, coal black as they peered out from her delicate whitefeatures. She was small boned and finely wrought like a piece of paperart smoothed and shaped so that the edges and corners were replaced bycurves. Her hair was so white it seemed silver; there was a glitter toit that suggested the presence of that precious metal.

"Who am I?" she asked in a soft, lilting voice that whispered oftiny streams and small night sounds.

"You are my daughter," the King of the Silver River answered,discovering within himself the stirring of feelings he had thought longsince lost.

He did not bother telling her that she was an elemental, an earth childcreated of his magic. She could sense what she was from the instinctswith which he had endowed her. No other explanation was needed.

She took a tentative step forward, then another. Finding that she couldwalk, she began to move more quickly, testing her abilities in variousways as she circled her father, glancing cautiously, shyly at the oldman as she went. She looked around curiously, taking in the sights,smells, sounds, and tastes of the Gardens, discovering in them a kinshipthat she could not immediately explain.

"Are these Gardens my mother?" she asked suddenly, and he told herthey were. aOoeAm I a part of you both?aO? she asked, and he told heryes.

"Come with me," he said gently.

Together, they walked through the Gardens, exploring in the manner of aparent and child, looking into flowers, watching for the quick movementof birds and animals, studying the vast, intricate designs of thetangled undergrowth, the complex layers of rock and earth, and thepatterns woven by the threads of the Gardens' existence. She wasbright and quick, interested in everything, respectful of life, caring.He was pleased with what he saw; he found that he had made her well.

After a time, he began to show her something of the magic. Hedemonstrated his own first, only the smallest bits and pieces of it soas not to overwhelm her. Then he let her test her own against it. Shewas surprised to learn that she possessed it, even more surprised todiscover what it could do. But she was not hesitant about using it. Shewas eager.

"You have a name," he told her. "Would you like to know what itis?"

"Yes," she answered, and stood looking at him alertly.

"Your name is Quickening." He paused. "Do you understand why?"

She thought a moment. "Yes," she answered again.

He led her to an ancient hickory whose bark peeled back in great, shaggystrips from its trunk. The breezes cooled there, smelling of jasmine andbegonia, and the grass was soft as they sat together. A griffin wanderedover through the tall grasses and nuzzled the girlaO(TM)s hand.

"Quickening," the King of the Silver River said. "There issomething you must do."

Slowly, carefully he explained to her that she must leave the Gardensand go out into the world of men. He told her where it was that she mustgo and what it was that she must do. He talked of the Dark Uncle, theHighlander, and the nameless other, of the Shadowen, of Uhl Belk andEldwist, and of the Black Elfstone. As he spoke to her, revealing thetruth behind who and what she was, he experienced an aching within hisbreast that was decidedly human, part of himself that had been submergedfor many centuries. The ache brought a sadness that threatened to causehis voice to break and his eyes to tear. He stopped once in surprise tofight back against it. It required some effort to resume speaking. Thegirl watched him without comment--intense, introspective, expectant.She did not argue with what he told her and she did not question it. Shesimply listened and accepted.

When he was done, she stood up. "I understand what is expected of me.I am ready."

But the King of the Silver River shook his head. aOoeNo, child, you arenot. You will discover that when you leave here. Despite who you are andwhat you can do, you are vulnerable nevertheless to things against whichI cannot protect you. Be careful then to protect yourself. Be on guardagainst what you do not understand.aO?

"I will," she replied.

He walked with her to the edge of the Gardens, to where the world of menbegan, and together they stared out at the encroaching ruin. They stoodwithout speaking for a very long time before she said, "I can tellthat I am needed there."

He nodded bleakly, feeling the loss of her already though she had notyet departed. She is only an elemental, he thought and knew immediatelythat he was wrong. She was a great deal more. As much as if he had givenbirth to her, she was a part of him.

"Goodbye, Father," she said suddenly and left his side.

She walked out of the Gardens and disappeared into the world beyond. Shedid not kiss him or touch him in parting. She simply left, because thatwas all she knew to do.

The King of the Silver River turned away. His efforts had wearied him,had drained him of his magic. He needed time to rest. Quickly he shedhis human image, stripping away the false covering of skin and bones,washing himself clean of its memories and sensations, and reverting tothe faerie creature he was.

Even so, what he felt for Quickening, his daughter, the child of hismaking, stayed with him.

Revue de presse :

"If Harry Potter has given you a thirst for fantasy and you have not discovered the magic of Terry Brooks, you are in for a treat."--Rocky Mountain News

"If you were delighted and entranced by Michael Ende's The Never Ending Story, you will definitely want to sample one of more of Terry Brooks's books."--Santa Cruz Sentinel